The Wind At Your Back
by androidilenya
Summary: Snapshots of Galadriel and Finrod, centered around a letter. (Remix)


**Remix of Zhie's fic _Yours Truly_, for Remix Redux 11. The work this is based on can be found at littlebalrog dot com / zhie / phoenix / viewstory dot php?sid=397**

* * *

She almost took the letter with her.

Almost did, because it was the first one she snatched up out of the pile on her desk, aged parchment crinkling under her fingers. Did not, because the air already smelled of smoke and her armor was only half on, the sword at her side a familiar yet unwelcome weight.

Later, she would regret not taking _something_, not snatching whatever came first to hand and bearing it to safety, because at the end of it all Doriath fell, crumbled to ash under the hands of her cousins, and then there was no going back.

* * *

Finrod had been with her the first time she had laid eyes on Menegroth, the towering trees that guarded the entrance and the wrought gate that was, then, still open for her family. Angrod had spoken of the majesty of Thingol's court, so very different from that of Tirion and yet still possessing the same power––hidden, perhaps, as a still stream might hide a swift current beneath, but no less present for that.

She did not believe it until she laid eyes on it herself.

"Do you remember the stories Grandfather Finwë used to tell us about the time before the crossing of the sea?" Finrod asked, nudging his horse closer to hers and keeping his eyes on looming Menegroth. Around them, the elves Thingol had sent to escort them shifted to keep close to the two of them.

She nodded. "And his friend Elwë, who stood beside him against every peril––this is his, is it not?"

"It is." Finrod's eyes shone with excitement; for a moment, Galadriel was reminded of the little boy that had sat cross-legged by the fire in their grandfather's house, the same expression of eager delight on his face. "And he has built this realm while we lived in Valinor––how long do you suppose it must have taken?"

"Long enough, though he had centuries to build it."

"And this palace!" Finrod turned to her, forgetting their escort in his excitement. "Artanis, I have _dreamed_––"

She raised an eyebrow, glancing at the elf closest to her, wondering what Thingol would think of this talk of building dreams and palaces. Nothing good, doubtless. "We all dreamed. There is yet time to fulfill that, without rushing on heedlessly."

He snorted, a light dancing in his eyes. "Is this truly you, lecturing me about being reckless?"

"Perhaps." She smiled, more for the benefit of Thingol's elves, who were eying them with no small distrust. And why should they not, when they and their kin were threatening their homeland simply by being there? "Or perhaps I am merely telling you to hush before you make a fool of yourself in front of our hosts."

Her brother sank back in his saddle, chastened. "Of course." He leaned towards her. "But there is something I have yet to tell you of, a plan that I mean to see brought to fruition."

"I do not doubt that, brother."

"I would not have our coming here have been for naught." His fingers were tight on the bridle of his horse, knuckles showing white. She smiled at him, then spurred her horse on, towards the gates of Menegroth, lowering her voice as she passed him.

"And do you think that you are the only one who wishes that, Findaráto?"

* * *

Galadriel had left Aman with the desire for her own kingdom, a place she could call her own, a throne that there, she (youngest daughter of the youngest son) could never sit.

It had taken some time to realize that such things were easily gained but easily lost, if one did not know how to handle it correctly. Her own family served for such examples––Maedhros lost a crown, her brothers fell to the fire, and hidden cities were found.

She could have carved out a realm for herself, here in Middle-earth. Had _intended_ to. She had still been filled with the fire that had borne her across the ice, part hatred and part pride.

(Fire that had never truly died, and perhaps would never. She had ever been prideful, after all, and it would take far more than a few Ages of death and loss before that began to wane.)

Her realm (her _throne_) never truly came into being (not as she had imagined it). Doriath taught her better.

There had been something about the world under Melian's protection that had whispered of things beyond her reckoning, of the type of power that had shone from the top of Taniquetil––except here, the power saturated the air, lining every breath with the sort of light she remembered from _before_, yet dimmer than that of the trees. Starlight, tempered with age. She had entered Menegroth and stayed, as autumn followed summer outside. (Time seemed more elastic inside, and some days she could have sworn she felt it pooling, gathering in the empty corners like so much dust.)

She distinctly remembered the moment she realized she did not wish to leave, that her dream of ruling her own lands had vanished as if under the bright morning sun. That there was something else here, something she was willing to give that up for to pursue.

A realm was one thing. Power like Melian's––power over the land itself––was another thing altogether.

(And perhaps there was more––a vision of caves wreathed in smoke, blood drying on marble pillars. Kingdoms had a habit of ending in slaughter and ruin; she would have no part in them. But she had ever been talented at pretending that the Sight could lie, that what she Saw might not come to pass––and so she did not speak to Finrod of her dreams of a crown cast aside.)

Her brothers could have their crowns, their carven thrones and kneeling subjects.

One day, she vowed, she would surpass them all.

* * *

_Dear brother,_

_I hope that this letter finds you happy in your new home, and that your work to make it such is going smoothly. My beloved sends his regards, and wishes you well in your endeavors. And it is true that hard work can often serve as an adequate distraction from other cares––especially when that work produces such readily visible effects._

_The messenger who brought this letter told me something of the preparations you have made for your new kingdom. Nargothrond sounds as though it will be wonderful––Melian has told me of the safety of those caves, and the beauty of the river. I do not doubt that someday your fortress will be named as an equal to Menegroth in splendor and might. Once it is ready, I will certainly come and visit (or whenever you think it completed enough for others to see––I know how you feel about your unfinished work being on display, and will honor that), but I do not think that I will be joining you there as a permanent resident._

_It is, of course, incredibly kind of you to offer, and know that if the situations were reversed, I would do the same––but Doriath is the first place I have found here that feels like a home (not _home_ as we knew it, for Valinor is beyond our reach now, but something like it). Perhaps, in time, I will tire of this place as well, seek to move elsewhere, and if that time ever comes rest assured I will look first to you for refuge. In the meantime, do try to keep from running into too many stalactites––you will need that head to draw up plans for a little while longer, at least!_

_For now, I remain,_

_Your sister,_

_Artanis_

* * *

When news came to Menegroth of her cousin's treachery and Finrod's fall, Galadriel found a bottle of Thingol's strongest wine and a secluded corner and sat down to face her grief alone.

Celeborn found her within a few hours, though not in time to prevent her from getting fairly inebriated. She did not look up when he entered, but decided to speak when it became clear he wasn't planning to––she had always hated it when people stood behind her in silence.

"Come to convince me that this is hardly appropriate behavior?" she asked, and some distant part of her was proud that her voice was so clear. Celeborn moved to her side, close enough to touch her, but kept his hands at his side for the time being.

"Hardly my place to do so," he noted dryly.

"Come to join me, then?"

He shook his head ruefully. "One sip would have me reeling down the hall, and I doubt that the court would take well to seeing me in such a state."

She let out a laugh, the sound short and abrupt and swallowed by the silence.

"I don't blame you," he added, voice low. "To lose the last of your brothers––"

"Oh, _please._ I did not drink myself into a stupor when Aikanáro and Angaráto died, do not pretend that this is only because of the latest news I have gotten regarding a family member's death."

"Perhaps not _only_." He laid a hand on her arm. She considered shaking it off, but before she could do so he continued. "But this does add to the considerable number of deaths that you carry on your shoulders."

"So this is a delayed reaction to all the dead kin I have?" She snorted. "Call it what it is, Celeborn. A selfish determination to hide from the fact that everyone I love has a terrible habit of getting killed. To pretend my brother didn't pull something incredibly stupid and brave and _die_ on me." _Like the rest,_ she almost added, but her throat seemed to have closed itself up.

"It's not selfish," Celeborn began, and she slammed her glass down.

"I have done nothing but make selfish decisions _all my life_, love. Let's please not act as though the truth is otherwise, hm?"

"And it's perfectly normal if you're angry at him."

She stared at him, speechless. "You think––Eru _damn_ that, Celeborn. I'm angry at everyone who's ever died despite my best attempts at preventing it. And I didn't even attempt to change anything Seen this time. He died all on his own."

(_He told me to be careful, over and over. Do you see the irony, Celeborn, do you laugh as loud as I do?_)

"Did you foresee this?"

"Of course I did."

_I saw all of this, Celeborn, I saw the deaths of everyone I hold dear and still went forward, crossed the Ice and fought for survival alongside them and pretended it would not happen, that they would not fall––_

(They all fell, in the end.)

"Do you know," she started, and had to stop, take another breath before continuing. "He invited me to come stay with him. _Begged_ me. Nargothrond was his _home_, and he didn't understand why it couldn't be mine, too." Her hands had balled themselves into fists; she stared down at them, forcing the words out. "I stayed here. For the scraps of power from a Maia's table. And there are things yet to come––Nargothrond will fall, any fool can see that, and I will not be there when it does. Because I was _afraid_."

And, as if for the first time, the realization: Finrod would not be there either, for that matter. And if she could have prevented anything, if she could have _done_ anything––

(_My home is your home. Will you join me?_)

Finrod's tone was always so heartrendingly hopeful, even through written words, and now his crown was cast aside at the feet of traitors and murderers, his kingdom as doomed as it had always been.

Celeborn wrapped his arms around her. She clutched him, gasping for breath, and felt the tears finally come.

* * *

She returned to Doriath three winters following the clouded day of death and terror.

The trees were much the same, bare branches scratching the pale sky, bases perhaps faintly charred. Moss had grown up over the gates of Menegroth, ivy twining between the bars. One of the doors was missing entirely, and the other hung askew, one hinge torn free from the wall, a corner dragging on the ground.

Her own quarters had been all but demolished, dark stains still marking where blood had been spilled. Someone had dragged most of the bodies out of the palace––perhaps her cousins, cleaning up their own dirty work for once. Fire had been set to most of the palace, but her study had escaped the worst of it. There were even a few mouldering scraps of parchment gathered on her desk, untouched by the invaders.

She picked up the top one.

_I write to you in haste for there is much work for me to do..._

She sank down in a chair that was (miraculously) still intact, sending up a puff of dust. The wind whistled around the ruined palace, moaning a dirge for the fallen. The parchment trembled in her hands.

_Ah, Findaráto, what could have been..._

For the first time in a long time, she imagined ruling, a crown on her head and a throne beneath her. A land at the mercy of her whim. Such a place could be kept safe, with the knowledge Melian had given her, the lessons Finrod had taught her. The time would come when such a place would be everything to a weary world.

(_May your paths be green._ Finrod's hand, strong and sure, every loop and dot familiar. _And the breeze behind you. Be careful._)

Galadriel felt the corner of her mouth twitch upwards. If there were no brothers left to surpass, what did that leave her?

_Anything in the world, dearest sister,_ a voice remarkably like Finrod's whispered.

She set the letter down.


End file.
